Philadelphia

Members of the Police Advisory Commission -- Kelvin Anderson (left), Jeannette Gillis, William Johnson, Joseph Chaffin and William Michael -- discuss the group's community presence. The group organized a public hearing on police brutality to gain recognition in some neighborhoods and to help promote itself. Photo by Emily Canal

PHILADELPHIA – Barbara Laker, a Pulitzer Prize-winning reporter for the Philadelphia Daily News, covers stories of police corruption and brutality in the city. She has sat on the stoops and in the living rooms of women who were sexually assaulted by officers. She has spoken to the shop owners whose merchandise was stolen and security cameras disabled in targeted “drug raids.” Laker and her partner, Wendy Ruderman, uncovered atrocities in a series called “Tainted Justice.”

“Some of the stuff that happens goes under the radar, and the people who are victimized feel voiceless,” Laker said.

The Police Advisory Commission, is trying to give victims a voice. It is the official civilian oversight agency and investigates claims of police misconduct. Victims can use the group instead of lawyers and complaints filed with the Internal Affairs Bureau to pursue charges against Philadelphia authorities.

“They really believe that if they told their side of the story and the cop told his, the cop would be believed,” Laker said of the police brutality victims. “They feel that they don’t have power in the city and won’t be heard.”

In the most recent report issued by the PAC, 280 complaints were filed in 2008, the most ever recorded in its 17 years of operation. Approximately 143 were investigated. William Johnson, the executive director, said the number of successful cases couldn’t be determined because some are still ongoing.

PAC staff members and city officials are campaigning for a spring ballot question to determine PAC’s permanent status in the city’s charter. This would ensure the group is not abolished by future administrations that might oppose the commission.

“We are trying to make sure neglect or benign neglect doesn’t happen,” said Everett Gillison, the deputy mayor of public safety, who is spearheading the initiative. “It has suffered a lot for lack of investment.”

William Johnson, the executive director of PAC, said administrations previous to Mayor Michael Nutter’s did not fully invest in or support its development.

“Some prior administrations were not favorable to the commission or the work that it does,” said Johnson, 52, of Germantown. “Prior administrations had a pattern of ignoring appointments of new members.”

Gillison agreed that PAC’s stunted development was a result of previous city leaders who did not support the oversight commission.

“There is always going to be tension whenever you have someone overseeing what you are doing,” said Gillison, as he sat behind tidy piles of paperwork in his high-rise City Hall office. “But that oversight is a good thing.”

Gillison said Mayor Nutter’s work to combat police brutality and corruption with Police Commissioner Charles Ramsey in 2008 was stalled with the economic downturn. He was forced to cut four PAC staff members, shrinking the commission to fewer than 10 employees.

Mayor Nutter tapped Gillison this year to campaign for the legislation. It must be approved by the City Council before it can be placed on the May ballot.

“The downturn has been going on for the past two years and we still aren’t out of the woods yet,” Gillison said. “But we are now in a position to reform the structural element instead of laying people off and raising taxes.”

Johnson said the permanent status would ensure the commission’s survival through guaranteed funding and regular member appointments. He added that the budget for about seven full-time employees was $290,000.

“We have looked at what it would take to adequately fund an oversight agency in Philadelphia given the size of the police department,” Johnson said. “We came to a figure of about $600,000 for an agency that deals with about 7,000 in the police department.”

Gillison said he hopes the increase in funds would allow for the hire of one or two more investigators.

Mayor Nutter also appointed 18 new commissioners to PAC in April and September. The newly appointed members do not conduct investigations of brutality or corruption, but read the materials and deliver an opinion in a court case.

Multiple calls and e-mails to the press office of the Philadelphia Police Department were not returned.

Reaching out to the neighborhoods

Jamira Burley’s family history with crime and police confrontations propelled her to work with PAC to spread the knowledge of its existence and resources in the community.

“People don’t know about PAC and what it can do for them,” said Burley, a 22-year-old senior at Temple University and the youngest member of PAC. “Hopefully people will realize these things are here to help their situation.”

She remembers the police breaking down her door to arrest various members of her family for robberies, drug violations and murder. Her mother and 10 older brothers have been in and out of jail, and her father is currently serving a life sentence.

“This is the time to make a change otherwise people are going to lose faith in the administration,” said Burley, perched in her cubicle next to a photo memorial of her brother who was killed in street violence several years ago. “Brutality has always been an issue, but its really being brought to the forefront.”

Burley said that despite her family’s background with the authorities, she understands the difficulties of the profession, and her siblings do not hold grudges against the arresting officers.

“I never had any animosity toward the police,” Jamira said. “I knew they were doing their job.”

While PAC commissioners and Gillison support the movement and boast about its imperative nature, Burley is apprehensive that the public will not recognize PAC’s name on the ballot.

“I’m skeptical and not sure people will know what they voted on when they leave the box,” Burley said. “We haven’t done enough to show useful the PAC can really be.”

Johnson said his greatest concern is the time it will take the City Council to approve the legislation and draft the question for the vote.

“I think those who do know us will have the opportunity to realize the value of citizen oversight,” Johnson said. “That will carry on the day of the vote.”

Gillison said he was about 50 percent confident that the City Council would approve the ballot question this year.

“I think we will put together a campaign to have people understand why it’s necessary,” Gillison said. “There is a lot of responsibility on PAC to be relevant.”

How a PAC case is set up

Johnson said PAC cases begin after a complaint is filed and the investigators determine if the claim has merit. PAC employees conduct interviews with the alleged victims and perpetrators and gather evidence before issuing an opinion to the Internal Affairs Bureau of the police department. The statement is later used in court.

Greg Bucceroni, a member of the Crime Victim’s Support Services and advocate of PAC, said civilian oversight is needed, citing a rise in police brutality and corruption.

Bucceroni said his brother, Charles, was assaulted by Philadelphia police officers in 2003 and later pressed charges. He said his brother dealt with corruption in the internal affairs investigation, but was later awarded more than a million dollars. Charles declined to comment.

“Johnson does the best he can, but he is at the mercy of it all,” Bucceroni said. “The only way to get rid of the corruption is to clean house, but that ain’t never going to happen.”

Johnson said if the legislation isn’t on the May ballot, it could be rehashed for the November vote.

“This has been an eight year process, and we are closer then we have ever been,” Johnson said. “Whether its in May or November is insignificant to me, as long as we can move forward.”

Mayor Nutter sponsored the legislation to create PAC in 1994 while he was a city councilman. Since its conception, the commission has received 2,425 complaints of brutality and corruption.

“The idea of physical threats was a reality for commission members,” Johnson said. “Anyone who wanted to stand up for accountability had a lot of opposition to confront at that time.”

On Dec. 14, City Councilwoman Donna Reed Miller held a public hearing on police brutality where victims are invited to share their experiences with misconduct. Johnson, Gillison, and Burley agreed that the effort could enhance the community’s recognition of the commission.

“You could throw the encyclopedia of knowledge at them, but until they have a face people too often forget about (PAC),” Jamira said. “But over the past few weeks, people have started to realize who PAC is.”

Gillison said he supports the good cops, but wants to see the change in corruption and brutality like everyone else.

“To call for an end to police brutality is like saying ‘I vote for air,’” Gillison said. “We want to go after people who dishonor the badge.”

Donna Giddings poses with young men from the Carson Valley School. Giddings joined Mothers in Charge after her mother, son and her son's best friend were murdered in a triple homicide. Photo by Jasmine Brown

PHILADELPHIA — Dorothy Johnson-Speight had a dream. She was in a boxing ring surrounded by a group of angry mothers carrying bull horns and shouting into the city streets. They were calling for people to join them in the fight against violence. When she woke up, Johnson-Speight, who lost her only son in a dispute over a parking space, began to develop Mothers in Charge, an organization that provides support to women who have lost loved ones to violence.

It is made up of mothers, grandmothers, aunts, wives and sisters who have lost loved ones to violence in Philadelphia. Their mission is to reduce the number of violent acts, particularly homicides, in the city. Through activism, grief support and a myriad of different programs, they are working to raise awareness and save lives.

Nine years ago, Dorothy Johnson-Speight’s son, Khaaliq Johnson, was murdered. He was shot eight times in front of his house over a parking space. The man who killed Johnson was out on bail — six months earlier, he had stabbed a teenager to death.

Ruth Donnelly, the mother of the teenager who was stabbed to death, helped Johnson-Speight found the organization.

Johnson, 24, had just been accepted into a Masters program in Delaware. He was planning to start school the following month.

Dorothy Johnson-Speight is the founder and executive director of Mothers in Charge, an organization that provides support to women who have lost a loved one to violence. Johnson-Speight founded the organization in memory of her 24-year-old son, Khaaliq, who was murdered over a parking space. Photo by Jasmine Brown

This was not the first time Johnson-Speight had lost a child. Her daughter, Carlena, died when she was 3 years old from bacterial meningitis. Johnson-Speight said that after the death of her children, her life was changed forever. She still attends counseling from time to time.

“You don’t even look at life the same way,” she said. “I guess what things were important to you before are no longer as important. Things that maybe didn’t mean much to you before mean a whole lot to you now. The friendships that you seek now are different and more meaningful in terms of purpose, living on purpose. You are changed forever.”

After the death of her son, Johnson-Speight made a conscious decision to live on purpose. She used the funds from a life insurance policy her son had to fund Mothers in Charge in his memory.

“I am a better person as a result,” said Johnson-Speight. “Nobody wants to lose their children to be a better person or understand life in a more meaningful way, but that is what truly has happened.”

The group’s beginning was humble. Initially, Mothers in Charge worked out of Johnson-Speight’s home. To raise funds, they held fish fries and bake sales and went door-to-door to gain support.

Now, Mothers in Charge is a household name in Philadelphia. In a little more than seven years, they have grown into a full-fledged business. Today, they are funded through grants, money from state representatives and local fundraisers.

Johnson-Speight is the executive director of Mothers in Charge. To the women employed by the organization, she is more of a den mother than their boss. Her black and white, jewel-encrusted BlackBerry is never far from her reach. They are always on her mind and she sends them constant texts and e-mail messages to check on them.

Johnson-Speigh said her faith, her work and the women in the organization keep her going, helping to sustain her in the aftermath of her son’s death and support her as she counsels grieving women almost every day.

The fight against crime is a never-ending battle and the names don’t stop coming in. Every Wednesday, the homicide list is placed on Johnson-Speight’s desk. The spreadsheet, which comes from the police department, provides the details for the previous week– the date of death, the name of the victim and the type of weapon used, usually a gun. There are about five to eight names every week, Johnson-Speight said.

Their membership is growing. It is the type of organization that no one wants to have to join and that everyone is glad exists. With every new victim, there is a family that needs support. The police provide the organization with contact information for the victim’s family.

Deborah Grant-Cook, 61, is responsible for sending out sympathy cards and information about the services and grief support offered free of charge by the organization.

“When I see that list that comes through, I am amazed,” Grant-Cook said. “You hear it on the news, when you turn on the news that is all you here. But then to see it up close and personal on paper, and then the ages of these youngsters, it’s a bit rough.”

According to the Philadelphia Police Department, there were 284 reported homicides between Jan. 1 and Dec. 8, 2010. Of that number, 247 were males, including 200 who were black. The highest number of homicides, 111, were young people between 18 and 24 years old. Of those, 102 were male and 89 were black.

Homicide is the leading cause of death among black males between the ages of 14 and 24.

“I see it as a health issue,” Johnson-Speight said. “I believe if some other cause of death was killing say white males 14-24, if it was some kind of incurable disease, we would be trying to find all kinds of vaccinations, vaccines or some type of cure to save those lives. Unfortunately, homicide is not an incurable disease, and there is no vaccine for it. But it is by the same token taking the lives of African American males at an alarming rate.”

Many think that Mothers in Charge is just a group of angry mothers who go out into the city to grieve and shout about violence, according to Johnson-Speight, but that is not all that they do, she said. Rather, they are trying to fight violence from all sides, using education as their foundation.

One of their many programs deals with juveniles at the Carson Valley School and in placement at the Philadelphia Industrial Correction Center. While many of the young men at Carson Valley have committed misdomeaner crimes, most of the young men at PICC are waiting to be tried as adults for crimes such as murder and armed robbery.

Mothers in Charge goes into the prison every Monday and Wednesday to mentor these young men. The mothers try to teach them how to change their mindset on violence. They tell the stories of their own loss and teach the boys about love and self respect. In order to prevent the boys who return home from going back to crime, the organization pairs them with older males who have gone down that same path and managed to turn their lives around.

Donna Giddings, 48, is one of the mothers who work with the youths at Carson Valley and PICC. She joined Mothers in Charge after her mother, her son, and her son’s best friend were murdered in a triple homicide in North Philadelphia. Working with the organization helps Giddings to keep her mind off of the pain, and she really loves working with the young men in the program, she said.

“When I look at them, I see my son,” she said. “Because I worked so hard with him and he was in and out of trouble — he was in placement twice. The last time he came home, five months later he was killed.”

Giddings says that Johnson-Speight and the other mothers in the organization have been a real comfort to her. She calls the organization a sisterhood. They support one another, even on the anniversaries of the death of their loved ones.

“It lets me know that what I am feeling and what I feel on a daily basis, on a regular basis, there is someone else that understands,” Giddings said. “Because to most people, it is like, ‘Oh my God, there she goes,’ or, ‘Oh God, how are you making it?’ But these Mothers understand, you know. They understand what we go through when we are sad, when we cry, because they can relate — they know what it feels like to lose a child.”

Johnson-Speight says that she is blown away by the work of the organization and the amount to which it has helped individuals.

“There are several mothers who I thought when I first met them that they just wouldn’t survive, that they would just be a basket case,” she said.

She mentioned Giddings in particular. She said that when Giddings first to came to Mothers in Charge, she was broken.

“When she came I said, ‘I don’t know how she is going to survive.’ She had a double funeral where she buried her mom and her son and it was just her 12-year-old daughter that was left,” Johnson-Speight said. “And today I see her and it is just amazing how she has grown. She has given back so much and is really making a difference. “

Johnson-Speight does not take all the credit for the organization. She says that it is not just her that has made Mothers in Charge a success.

I know it’s not just me. I know it’s God,” she said. “I know it’s like an intervention that is beyond me, beyond any human kind of, ‘OK, I am going to go and just do this.’ I believe it is our children that are looking out for us and rooting for us saying, ‘You go mom, we gon’ help you with this’ — our little guardian angels. I believe it is God. I believe it is the commitment of the women. It’s all of that; it is just amazing.”

Johnson-Speight says that the work is hard. Her schedule is often filled with rallies, one-on-one grief counseling, and all types meetings. Oftentimes, she works until 7 p.m. or 8 p.m.. But she believes in the fight against violence and that Mothers in Charge is making a difference.

Her son Khaaliq is still never far from her. His picture hangs behind the desk in her office and on one of the walls hangs with containing more pictures of Khaaliq. It reads, “His Love Surrounds You, Always!” Johnson-Speight calls him her guardian angel.

She looks forward to the Wednesday that no names come in on the homicide list. She believes it is possible.

“That is what I get up every morning believing. That is what drives me. That we are going to get there,” Johnson-Speight said.

Lisa Nelson-Haynes looks out onto the streets of Philadelphia. Haynes has been the associate director at The Painted Bride for more than seven years and thinks African American artists deserve more coverage in the Philadelphia art community. Photo by Elizabeth Vulaj

PHILADELPHIA — When Sande Webster announced to the Philadelphia art world in 1968 that she was going to open a gallery that would feature black artists, she got a phone call from a gallery owner that shocked and infuriated her.

“She said to me, ‘I hear you have black artists in your gallery. You can’t do that. If black people come, white people will never come.’ I said, ‘You don’t even know who I am, how dare you talk to me like that, ” she recalled.

Webster slammed the phone down and embarked on her mission to bring coverage and attention of black artists’ work to the forefront of the Philadelphia art community.

The situation has improved considerably for black artists since the civil rights movement in the 1960s, but a majority of them believe their work is undervalued, she said. Webster and other gallery owners said that deep-rooted racism still pulses through the city. According to Webster, her gallery, Bridgette Mayer Gallery, and the October Gallery are the only main places in town that regularly feature black artists.

“Most white galleries would not even handle work by black artists, even today,” Webster said as she shuffled around her gallery in her brown velour track suit, pointing out a collection of painted cubes, some of which were crafted by black artists. “When I was showing the work and no one else was, I thought, ‘Why are these other galleries so stupid? It’s some of the best work out there, and maybe a lot of them (are) better than the white artists. So why are they afraid?”

Black artists say that gallery owners fear showing their work will drive away their business.

“That’s the perception,” said James Brantley, a black artist and Webster’s husband of more than 26 years. “That it might drive white collectors away. But it’s not true.”

Brantley, 65, makes conceptual landscapes and has been featured in major museum collections. Brantley says galleries are worried that museums might not pick up their work if they feature too many black artists.

For him, this treatment is all too familiar. Throughout his career, he has had to push past gallery owners who have slammed their doors on him because of his race.

“I remember being in New York, and I went to one gallery and they said to me, ‘You’re a good painter, but you’re not a good artist,’” he said. “What he obviously was saying was that I knew what my craft was, but in the art world, you have to have connections and sometimes you need a certain complexion to get that connection.”

While the art world thrives on creativity, artists live on these kinds of connections. Meeting the right people and rubbing shoulders in the top social circles is one of the main avenues for success. But young black artists, who are in the infancy stage of their careers and have not met many people yet, struggle with this.

“They are not necessarily getting invited to the galas and all those places where they can meet potential buyers or be seen,” said Lisa Nelson-Haynes, the associate director at The Painted Bride Art Center, a nonprofit arts organization that opened in 1969.

The key to success for any minority artist is to cross racial lines, said Libby Rosof, one of the co-founders of The ArtBlog, a Philadelphia-based blog.

“African Americans largely network with African Americans, white people are with white people, and Asians are with Asians,” Rosof said. “So there has to be something that causes somebody to be extraordinary and cross that race line.”

When they first began their blog, Rosof, 64, and her colleague, Roberta Fallon, 61, wanted to cover artists around the area who had not been featured in the news. They saw that young, female and black artists were not getting as much press as seasoned professionals were, and they wanted to change that. With 36,000 page views per month, they have been giving a voice to the underdogs of the art community since 2003. Although both women say they have helped change the game, they believe people still categorize and overlook black artists, and they have to work twice as hard to network their way to the top.

Haynes agrees, and said that the most successful artists of color have learned how to promote themselves almost to the point of becoming their own trademark.

“The most successful ones have mastered being able to market themselves,” she said. “But I’m sure they’re exhausted because they spend so much time marketing themselves and their work.”

Haynes, who is black, has been working for more than seven years at the Bride, where the staff not only provides venues for the artists to show their work, but also helps them find commissioning support. A lot of black artists struggle to finance the projects they want to work on.

“It’s not just about creating the work, it’s about getting the funding to create the work,” Haynes said. “Are they able to sustain themselves solely as working artists? Are they getting the grants? Most frequently, they are not. We see the struggle for getting support a lot and that definitely impacts their visibility.”

She thinks having people of color working on the boards that give grants will help black artists.

“We have to have diversity of voices and if we don’t, we’re not going to see coverage in the papers or in broadcast,” Haynes said.

Art insiders like Fallon said more doors have opened over the past several years for black artists and opportunities have steadily increased.

Auction houses are now starting to dedicate departments to black artists and Webster sees more white buyers in her gallery purchasing work by black artists. Some of the artists she features in her gallery can demand up to the thousands for their pieces, which was not the case 20 years ago.

“I’m sure there are tons of former gallery owners who are saying, ‘Why the hell wasn’t I showing Basquiat when he stumbled in here?” said Haynes. “Why didn’t I take that stuff that he was trying to sell me for 200 bucks? Now, you can’t get a Basquiat for less than $800,000.”

Haynes said one of the original founders of the Bride, Gerry Givnish, supported artists of all color simply because he loved their work.

“When artists catch a cold, minority artists catch pneumonia,” said Brantley. “But racism is no excuse for bitterness. We change the things we can and for the things we can’t change, we just go on with our lives.”

Jemima King, 28, of Lancaster County, Pa., stands in front of her family's Amish produce stand at Reading Terminal Market in Philadelphia. Despite a recent increase in the worldwide Amish population, some like King choose to leave the religious community. Photo by Jessica Bell

PHILADELPHIA — Bagging crisp, white rice cakes and churning honey roasted nuts into a buttery spread, Jemima King has worked alongside her father at Reading Terminal Market for 17 years, selling everything from produce and preserves to jams and jellies.

She said the business partnership has strengthened their bond both personally and professionally. But today, King is not welcome at his home for Thanksgiving dinner. Nor is she invited to celebrate with him on Christmas day. That all changed the moment she stopped being Amish.

For 25 years, King, 28, belonged to an Amish church in southern Lancaster County, Penn., a tight-knit Christian community that rejects many modern day conveniences and adheres to a strict code of social conduct.

But after years of following church rule, King said she had enough. In 2007, she packed her things and parted ways with her family, her husband and the Amish way of life.

“I respect where I came from,” King said. “I respect the conservative, simple way. But I thought that there has to be something more, and I came to the understanding that there’s more to life than being Amish.”

Despite a significant increase in their numbers this year, the Lancaster Amish — who live just one hour outside Philadelphia and bring much business to the city — must still fight to keep members.

According to 2010 reports from The Young Center for Anabaptist and Pietist Studies at Elizabethtown College, the number of Amish, now 250,000 worldwide, grew 10 percent since 2009. Lancaster County boasts more than 29,000 — the oldest and one of the largest Amish settlements in North America.

Stephen Scott, a research associate at the Young Center, said Lancaster is one of the more successful groups, with a retention rate of 90 percent. Yet he said increased land costs have forced many to take up non-agricultural work in urban areas, where they inevitably interact with “the outside world.”

“This is a relatively recent development that could very well have a strong influence on people leaving, especially young girls who are away from home long hours with a lot of outside contact,” Scott said.

David Weaver-Zercher, professor of American Religious History at Messiah College and author of “The Amish Way,” added that settlements close to big cities are more likely to struggle for members.

“Going to market has been looked down upon; it provides young people socialization,” he said. “Families that mix with the larger world, that instead of farming or have businesses in town go to market in a city, will see a lower retention rate.”

Jemima King sells jam, peanut butter and other goods at her family's Amish produce stand. Photo by Jessica Bell

From helping her father stack jam jars to selling goods at the bargain store Bent and Dent, King interacted with non-Amish folk since before age of 11, but never thought of leaving the community. And even after completing Rumspringa — a period of self-exploration when Amish adolescents decide to either join or leave the church — King never questioned the rules of her religious upbringing.

It was not until after three of her six sisters left southern Lancaster that King began to consider other options.

After she moved out, her parents never asked her to visit the five-bedroom house of her childhood; they disapproved of her choice to leave and separate from her husband, who has since left the Amish to join King and their 4-year-old daughter.

“When my first sister left, she wasn’t allowed to come over; they had to mourn,” she said. “Now they’ve learned to accept us at where we are. We’re not a part of their Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners — the ones that left are not invited. But we’ve just learned to accept it. I’m very grateful and thankful that my parents are still talking to me.”

According to Zercher, “Some parents are angry and believe the best thing to do is make that process as painful as possible, which can be difficult and alienating.”

But he added that, like King, many who choose to leave for religious reasons do not abandon their Christian faith.

“It wasn’t materialism that I left the Amish for,” she said. “I don’t have to be Amish to go to Heaven. I was living under a lot a of bondage being Amish.”

Raised in the private, patriarchal and “more plain” part of Lancaster, King –- who now wears rhinestone studs and black leggings rather than white bonnets and calf-length dresses — said fellow churchgoers faced retribution for everything from having a “fancy bathroom” to taking phone calls on the Sabbath.

“The Bishop would go over all the rules of the church, all of the dos and don’ts, down to the nitty-gritty,” she said. “Through all my growing up years, I knew about this God, but the dos and don’ts did not make sense. That stuff really gets me going. It’s what led me to search, to find out what is right and what is wrong.”

Brad Igou, president of the Amish Experience tours and publisher of Amish Country News in Lancaster County, said flexible or rigid church rule has a significant impact on the rate of retention.

“The Amish and the English here are neighbors,” he said of some parts of Lancaster, adding that Amish call all non-Amish people “English.” “As young people grow up, they’re pretty familiar with the outside world that they’re not as enticed by English living. Those communities that are more strict have the most problems, where some members want to rebel.”

But Zercher said children from more separatist groups also have a “bigger jump” to make from being Amish to “English.”

“Even if a girl grows up with an old order, if she’s having a lot of contact with the outside world, she’s gaining the skills to do well if she leaves Amish life,” he said of women like King.

Among the assortment of photos covering her refrigerator door hung a picture her daughter in a blue dress and braided pigtails. The little girl sat smiling atop the knee of her “doddy” — the Amish word for grandfather — who wore a collared shirt and stiff straw hat.

King said she also had a good childhood. She remembered walking one mile to a one-room schoolhouse for class, selling produce at a roadside stand and running through strawberry patches to pick fresh fruit “before the sun got hot.”

“There’s been times I miss just driving down the road in a buggy,” she said. “I miss the little grocery shops and I still look at my daughter’s Amish baby dresses — they’re so cute.”

Still, King said she does not regret her decision.

“It’s drilled into our heads to stay with the church,” she said. “Some people think it’s a heaven or hell issue if you leave. Not all, but some. And they’d definitely take you back — as long as they can see you’re making an effort. They so strongly believe to stay in what you were taught. But I saw a light at the end of the tunnel, and once I made up my mind, there was no going back.”

Brendan Mulvihill, right, jokes with a friend during a break from the pre-show preparations at The Ox in north Philadelphia on Dec. 11. Mulvihill, 24, lives at The Ox and helps his nine roommates book concerts. Photo by Nick DeSantis

PHILADELPHIA – Winter coats, gloves, and wool scarves are atypical rock concert attire, but Saturday night’s audience at The Ox, an underground music venue in north Philadelphia, had little choice but to bundle up.

Save for a belching space heater and the embers of lit cigarettes, the formerly abandoned warehouse had no heat. The crowd didn’t dance. They happily shivered instead, breathing plumes of fog into the darkness that made it hard to tell the shakers and the smokers apart.

The Ox is one of a large crop of house venues in Philadelphia that eschew the comforts of larger clubs and cater to diverse tastes, from hardcore punk to experimental dance music. Their staffs are permanent; the residents live in the clubs during the week and double as bookers, soundboard operators and clean-up crews. The shows are unadvertised, largely unregulated, and cater to an under-21 crowd that until recently had few options to see independent music in Philadelphia. Together, The Ox and its sister venues carry on a live music tradition in Philadelphia that has flown beneath the mainstream radar for the past 15 years.

Brendan Mulvihill, 24, found the abandoned warehouse that he and a group of friends would transform into The Ox on an Internet real estate site in the summer of 2009. The property’s owner had planned to turn the warehouse into a condo development, but scrapped those plans when the recession hit.

Mulvihill and friends pounced on the available property, turning it into a nerve center for underground music. Behind a false exit door in The Ox’s green room, the group built a kitchen and stuffed furniture into a cramped blue living room.

“We came in with some paint and some silly dreams and just set at it,” Mulvihill laughed.

The story of The Ox’s early days is typical of many of Philadelphia’s underground venues, which are usually located in transitional areas. Greg Johnson, 23, an Ox resident, noted that the cheap rent and large available space would not have been realistic in a different neighborhood or a different city.

“The whole world was freaking out about the economy, but that was the reason this place never turned into condos, so for us it was a good thing,” Johnson said.

The new property came with its drawbacks, though. On the day the Ox residents moved in, Johnson noticed a prostitute servicing a client in a truck parked in front of the building.

In addition to the occasional bursts of crime and the indignities of living in a space that’s short on heat, the residents of Philadelphia’s house venues face a more obvious challenge: noise control. At Danger Danger Gallery, a house venue in West Philadelphia, the residents have piled old mattresses against the living room window to muffle the music. Without the padding, the drums and guitars within would attract the unwanted attention of neighbors and the police.

Tristan Palazzolo, 28, founded Danger Danger in June of 2005 with a group of bandmates from his college days at Temple University.

Danger Danger epitomizes the term “house show.” One of the two front doors opens directly onto a dark stage in the living room. The space barely surpasses The Ox for amenities: its first floor bathroom’s lock is ripped out, with the word “lame” spray painted next to the empty hole.

Palazzolo described the first commandment of house shows in three words.

“Love thy neighbor,” he intoned over sips of beer at the Dock Street Brewing Company, where he works part time when he is not helping organize shows at Danger Danger.

Palazzolo admitted he did not heed his own advice five years ago. After Danger Danger’s first show in June 2005, the venue’s popularity grew steadily and culminated in a three-room, 20-act blowout show in February 2006 dubbed “Aquarius Raging.”

Soon after that show, Danger Danger began to run afoul of a neighbor who tired of the loud music next door, and the group was eventually evicted.

“It was just a matter of time before we got too big for that house,” Palazzolo said.

A friend’s financial windfall allowed Palazzolo and partners to purchase a new house in a retail district just three blocks away, and when Danger Danger moved to its current home in the summer of 2007, the evictions that threaten the lifespan of Philadelphia’s house venues were no longer a concern.

Much like his colleagues at The Ox, Palazzolo chalked the vibrancy of Philadelphia’s underground scene up to inexpensive rent (Philadelphia ranked 40th out of 100 U.S. metro areas in median rent, well behind New York, Boston, Washington, and Baltimore, according to a March 2010 study by the Center for Housing Policy), an abundance of available space, and a willingness to skirt the city bureaucracy that he says makes starting a legitimate business difficult.

A holiday card adorns the sound mixing board at The Ox in north Philadelphia on Dec. 11. The show was billed as the "Holiday Soiree" for the underground Philadelphia venue. Photo by Nick DeSantis

“’No’ is an answer to a question, so if you don’t ask the question, you won’t get the answer,” Palazzolo said. “My thing is, don’t ask questions and don’t ask permission.”

Those bureaucratic obstacles date back to the origins of the underground scene, according to Sara Sherr, 41, a local musician and organizer of Sugar Town, a monthly club night at Tritone on South Street that celebrates women in rock music.

She traced the proliferation of do-it-yourself venues back to the 1980s and ’90s, when Pennsylvania’s liquor laws had a chilling effect on independent music.

Music venues serving alcohol in Philadelphia are required to separate underage patrons from the 21-and-over crowd. Sherr pointed out that clubs profit almost exclusively by alcohol sales, making it impractical for small venues to undertake the expense necessary to separate the two age groups.

Rather than risk the reduced profits of an all-ages show, Philadelphia’s venues of 20 years ago catered almost exclusively to older music fans.

“The divide between the over-21 crowd and the under-21 crowd makes it almost impossible for small clubs to do all-ages shows,” said Sherr.

This hurdle had the unintended consequence of turning Philadelphia into a dead zone for independent touring acts, according to Jon Solomon, a DJ at WPRB-FM in Princeton, N.J., and former host of the Philadelphia City Paper’s “Local Support” internet radio show. Solomon said that many bands avoided the city’s unreliable turnouts, and booked shows in East Coast cities like New York and Washington, D.C., instead.

“For so many years, bands just skipped Philadelphia,” said Solomon. “When I was 18, 19, 20, the Khyber was the only game in town. Now that’s changed, thanks to so many other places where bands can play.”

In response to the dearth of all-ages venues for independent music, young musicians built an organic scene in any rooms where they could squeeze bands, equipment and an audience.

Today, venues like The Ox and Danger Danger have helped solidify the traditions of the all-ages music scene in Philadelphia and ensure its survival even if venues and promoters come and go.

Patrick Rodgers, founder of Nocturne, the city’s longest-running weekly club night at Shampoo in Spring Garden, said this “stubborn insistence” on all-ages shows in the late ’90s and early 2000s helped underground promoters gain prominence and respect.

“A continuity of community is essential to the survival of any scene, and that’s nearly impossible in a 21-plus club environment,” Rodgers wrote in an e-mail. “People need to grow into the habit of regularly attending shows and to feel like they’re part of something that extends beyond the boundaries of a single concert or event.”

After just a year in their warehouse space, Mulvihill, Johnson, and the rest of the Ox residents are already hearing from young music fans that want to follow in their footsteps. A group of Drexel University freshmen has approached them about making plans for their own underground venue.

“You don’t actually expect that people will recognize and respect this, because we’re just doing it because we like to do it,” Mulvihill said. “I guess we don’t consciously think of any glory.”

Inside the heatless, graffiti-sprayed walls of The Ox or the dingy basement of Danger Danger Gallery, widespread recognition seems like a faraway goal for these independent promoters. But the respect of the local music scene is enough to satisfy them for now.

“I go to bed at night and I look at my cinder block walls, and I know this won’t be forever,” Mulvihill said. “But for now, it’s pretty awesome.”